


All the Guilt (To Let Go Of)

by authoressnebula (authoressjean)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Episode: s04e18 The Monster at the End of This Book, Gen, Guilty Dean Winchester, Heavy Angst, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 04, Suicide Attempt, warning for suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:14:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27866701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressnebula
Summary: Sequel to "Last Line (To Hold On To)" -The only thing he could see was the gun in Sam's hand.The aftermath of Sam's attempt leaves Dean more than a little shaken and desperate to ensure it never happens.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Last Line (To Hang On To)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27865758) by [authoressnebula (authoressjean)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressnebula). 



> Originally posted on LiveJournal April 2009.

The only thing he could see was the gun in Sam's hand.  
  
The worst part of it was, Dean knew it wasn't for him. No, he knew _exactly_ what Sam intended to do with it. The hand that had already been curled around the gun before Dean had entered was a pretty good indicator of that.  
  
That, and the red-rimmed eyes and the utter look of desolation and _emptiness_ on Sam's face had Dean immediately knowing who Sam would ultimately turn the gun on.  
  
He didn't even turn it on Dean to keep him back. He flinched as Sam whispered about Dean being afraid of him, about lines being crossed, and it suddenly hit Dean as to why the gun wasn't trained on him. Sam thought Dean was either too afraid of Sam to move or that Dean wanted Sam to shoot himself, and Dean desperately tried to intervene, terrified for an entirely different reason than Sam thought. “Sam, no-”  
  
“I'd have done this sooner.” And the gun was up at Sam's temple before Dean could move, the trigger pulled, and blood shot and covered the opposite wall. Dean could hear someone screaming distantly as Sam fell to the floor, tears still streaming from his eyes wide in death. The despair was still locked there for the world to see, Dean's condemnation leading to this, and someone that sounded a lot like Dean was still screaming.  
  
Then he gasped and shot up straight in bed, trying to pull in breaths. Oh god. Oh _god_. Ohgodohgodohgod _Sammy_.  
  
Dean's eyes darted to the other bed anxiously, only to find Sam blinking sleep from his eyes. “D'n?” he whispered groggily. “Y'kay?”  
  
Dean swallowed hard and shut his eyes tight. _Yeah, I'm great, I'm dreaming about the other night when you almost killed yourself. Except this time, you really do._  
  
“I'm fine,” he managed, laying back down. The sheets felt too heavy, and he pushed them down a little. Room was too hot anyways. “Go back to sleep, Sammy.”  
  
He could feel Sam's eyes on him, and closed his eyes, pretending he was falling asleep. After a few moments, Sam finally gave a small sigh, and Dean could hear the covers rustling. He waited a few more minutes until Sam's breathing evened out, and he finally opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling.  
  
This was nightmare number three, and Dean knew it wasn't going to be the last. Not when he was only a few days out from the event. Not when Sam still didn't look stable enough for Dean (or Sam) to feel comfortable with Sam out of his eyesight.  
  
Not when this entire thing was Dean's fault.  
  
He'd just been so damn anxious, so worried and waiting for Lilith to burst in at any minute, and the fear had come out as anger, and Dean had said the first thing he could to make Sam pissed off, too. He'd said yes to Sam going darkside. Seen it coming with the past year. Sure.  
  
Except he hadn't. And Sam hadn't gotten angry back.  
  
He'd gotten suicidal.  
  
Dean shut his eyes tight. They'd talked a little afterwards, and Sam had said that Dean was his last line, his last support. Demons and angels both gossiping and plotting against him, and Dean was it. If Dean thought he'd gone too far, he was past the point of salvation. If Dean wouldn't stand by him, then Sam had no one to help him. No one left.  
  
And Sam, who so desperately didn't want to fall down the slope into darkness, decided to finish it the only way he knew how: by taking himself out. Because there was no one left on his side.  
  
Dean's stomach twisted and he turned over towards Sam, trying to find a comfortable place to sleep. Guilt felt heavy in his stomach, and he pushed the blankets down farther. It didn't matter what he did: nothing was going to make him feel any better.  
  
With his eyes on Sam, though, he felt himself drift off. Sam was alive, breathing softly, deep asleep.  
  
That was the only thing that was going to let him feel better.


	2. Chapter 2

Bag of food in his hand, Dean headed down the path to their door. He was loathe to step back inside their room, the tension between them for the past couple of days growing silently. Sam barely spoke at all, and Dean really didn't want to have to go back inside. Not yet. Less time he spent with Sam these days, less chance they had for an argument.  
  
He paused outside their room, key in hand, and glanced over at the Impala. He hadn't needed the car for the quick dash up to the store. Even as he thought about the couple of books Chuck had written that were stowed away in the trunk, the ones Dean had hoped to finish looking at, he found himself setting the bag of food down and pulling out the trunk keys. Few more minutes outside without Sam, and yeah, he was being a chicken, but he needed the space.  
  
The sudden crack of a gunshot had Dean automatically reaching for his own piece, tucked in the back of his pants. When he realized it was muffled, like it had come from indoors, he darted for the motel room key and hurried to get inside.  
  
He slid to a halt even as the door opened, and stared, stunned, at the blood coating the floor and the side wall. Sam was sprawled out on the floor, eyes closed, gun in his hand, hole in his head. Gone. He could have all the space he wanted from Sam, except now he didn't want it, he wanted his brother back, and he should've left the books in the trunk, why had he _stopped—_  
  
Dean's eyes snapped open again, gasping for air. A hand on his shoulder made him focus through the slight pooling moisture in his eyes, and Sam's worried face came into view. “Dean?”  
  
“M'fine-”  
  
“No,” Sam said firmly, sitting on the bed beside Dean. Dean blinked to clear his vision and meet Sam's steady, sad gaze. “No, you're not,” he repeated in a softer tone.  
  
He looked guilty, miserable, and Dean realized that Sam knew what Dean was dreaming about. And was blaming himself for it. “Sammy, no-”  
  
“Dean-”  
  
“Just...just what-if scenarios, that's all,” Dean said, pushing himself up to sitting. He rubbed at his face, and sighed. “Bad what-ifs.”  
  
“I'm-”  
  
“And if you finish that with 'sorry', I'll kick your ass,” Dean snapped, and raised his head from his hand to glare at Sam. Sam glared back, but still looked upset. “It's not your fault. It's mine.”  
  
“Dean, no-”  
  
“I shouldn't have said what I did, you being past saving. I didn't mean it and I don't believe it.”  
  
“Dean-”  
  
“And if I'd stopped at the trunk, or I hadn't moved fast enough, I-”  
  
“Would you let me _finish_?” Sam said suddenly, and Dean shut up. Sam let out a heavy sigh and hung his head. “Or god, even _start_.”  
  
Dean began to speak again then stopped himself, licking his lips and keeping them closed. Last thing he needed to do was talk: it was what had gotten him this far in the first place.  
  
“You're not okay,” Sam said softly. He raised his head slowly, meeting Dean's gaze, and the kid had shadows under his eyes that rivaled Dean's. He'd slept, hadn't he? “You're letting this eat you up and it's...it's just stupid, Dean. There's no point ripping yourself apart over what-ifs. I'm not dead.”  
  
The blood spattered images from his nightmares flashed through his head, and Dean shut his eyes tight. God, it'd been too close to reality. All because Dean hadn't checked his goddamn mouth at the door, had let anger get the best of him, and had thought that his words wouldn't mean anything to Sam in the long run.  
  
He'd forgotten how very vulnerable his now strong, grown up little brother could still be.  
  
“I'm sorry.”  
  
The words instantly made Dean's eyes shoot open. The face in front of him was full of pain and grief and a little self-loathing, still. It was that face that was possibly the worst part of Dean's nightmares, not the blood covered rooms. “Don't,” Dean said, pursing his lips. “This is _not_ -”  
  
“Give me a break,” Sam said, trying for angry and failing. “If I hadn't done what I did, you'd actually sleep through the night-”  
  
“And if I hadn't said what I had, you never would've had a reason to even _think_ about doing it,” Dean insisted. Sam's lips parted, but Dean kept going. “This comes down to me and what I did, Sam. Not you. I'm the one who majorly screwed up here, and I almost paid the highest price for it.” God had he almost. He would've lost the most important thing in his life, held Sam while he'd bled out for the second time.  
  
Sam was quiet after that, the only sounds being the small swish of the sheets as he unconsciously tugged them. Something dark stood out against the crisp white, and when Dean focused, he could see a book with a triskele symbol on it. Sam's journal. “You weren't sleeping,” Dean said, not even asking as he glanced at the clock. Two thirty-eight. “Sam-”  
  
“I can't,” Sam said softly. “Not when...not when I know you're gonna do this to yourself. If I fall asleep, I don't know if I'll wake up in time to wake _you_ up.” He dropped his gaze to the journal, his fingers picking at the worn edges. “I don't know how to help,” he finally confessed. “Besides being here and breathing, I really don't know what else to do. I try to bring it up, you won't talk about it.”  
  
“Because I flopped,” Dean admitted quietly. “I screwed up, almost got you killed, and it would've been because of _me_ , Sammy. I would've been the reason you went, and I can't forgive myself for that. Not yet.” Maybe never. Sam thinking that Dean was afraid of him? Shudder worthy. Sam deciding to kill himself because of it? It was nine types of wrong, and Dean didn't know the first thing to make it right.  
  
“I can,” Sam replied, voice barely loud enough to hear. Dean met his gaze and found Sam trying to smile. “And I already did, so...if you can't, won't forgive yourself, then let mine be enough? Please. I just... _please_ , Dean.”  
  
Like Dean could ever refuse that tone, that word, from Sam. He still felt something inside of him let go a little at the absolution that was offered without hesitation. He closed his eyes and fought to keep his eyes dry. Blindly he reached out, arm stretched and pleading.  
  
Sam's hand caught his and held it, and the tiny sigh of relief from his brother had Dean relaxing even more. He didn't deserve it, but he still had Sam's trust, Sam's love, still had _Sam_.  
  
And when Dean opened his eyes, the only thing he saw was Sam's smile.


End file.
